


Second Thoughts

by L2SFL



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Broken Bones, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Set during season 7, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Surgery, Trauma, shiro gets a new arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L2SFL/pseuds/L2SFL
Summary: Shiro has wanted a new right arm ever since waking up in his clone’s body. But returning to the operating table, even voluntarily, is easier said than done.





	Second Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> my first fill for the voltron bingo event! this is for the shiro card and the prompt was "galra arm/new arm".

Adjusting to his new body had been tough. It was the simple things that bothered him most, like remembering when he needed to eat, or that focusing too hard for too long resulted in headaches, or that sleeping required more than simply letting himself disconnect from his surroundings. Sometimes, the others would find him frozen, staring off into space for vast stretches of time because he’d forgotten that time actually  _ passed _ on the physical plane, and they could all see and hear him once more.

On top of all of that, his new body was no longer identical to his old one. Haggar’s modifications had eaten away at the stump of his right arm, and Keith’s blade had severed what remained at the shoulder. Unfortunately, he remembered  _ that _ part of their fight in vivid detail - just like he remembered his clone’s horror as autonomy returned and he realised what he had done. How close he’d come to killing those he called family. Shiro didn’t blame the clone - after all, he hadn’t asked to be made and manipulated by Haggar - and neither did he blame Keith for cutting off his arm. But on top of everything else, adjusting to life one-handed had been a real struggle.

For everything he hated about it, Shiro would begrudgingly admit that his Galra arm had been an incredible piece of technology. Wearing full-length sleeves and gloves, he could almost pretend he hadn’t lost a limb at all.  _ Almost _ . Its fine-motor functions left a bit to be desired, and the point where it connected to his stump had never healed properly so it hurt most the time, but it was far more useful than even the most advanced Earth prosthetics. Loathe though he was to admit it, somewhere along the line he had started taking the Galra arm for granted.

Now that he didn’t have it, everyday tasks became mazes of inconvenience. Opening the coffee jar in the morning meant gripping it between his knees and trying to twist the cap off with his weaker left hand while ensuring it didn’t tilt and spill granules all over the floor. Changing in and out of paladin armor took so long that he’d resorted to sleeping fully dressed on more than one occasion. It was less embarrassing than one of the others walking in on him cursing at the stupid buckles on his cuirass. When he wasn’t teaching himself to fight left-handed, he was stuck on research duty - but he had to carry around a tablet now, because the screen projected from the wrist of his paladin armor was useless without a second hand to operate it. He didn’t want to admit that he  _ missed  _ the damn thing - but in all honesty, he’d be lying.

Then they reached Earth. In the six years - had it really been  _ six years? _ \- since he left for the Kerberos mission, Earth technology had advanced in leaps and bounds. When Allura first showed him his new arm, his breath had caught in his throat and he’d frozen so still that she had to ask if he was okay three times before he could respond. Months had elapsed on the road home, and he had come to terms with the fact that he probably wasn’t getting a decent replacement any time soon. This, however, was a sleek piece with clear Altean influence. It was bulkier than the Galra arm but made of a far lighter metal and it didn’t have an elbow joint, which confused him until Allura explained how it would hover by his side so that he always had the option to remove it.

It was beautiful. When she said they could fit it as soon as the next day, he’d said yes.

Now, lying on the operating table, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

They needed to put him under for the procedure, which was a relief, really, because the thought of being conscious while someone poked and cut at his body was a horrifyingly familiar one, and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to remain in the present moment if subjected to that kind of treatment. The sterile room, antiseptic smell, and horizontal position were bad enough - it was taking a fair amount of mental gymnastics to keep his thoughts light.

Garrison medics bustled around the room, making final preparations for the surgery. There was an engineer too, standing out of the way against the wall. He met Shiro’s eyes and offered a small wave.

“Officer Shirogane?”

He blinked up at the figure leaning over him. The medic wore a mask, the front of which was clear. He could see dark eyes and a wisp of black hair.  _ Not Galra _ , he reminded himself.

“I need to touch your right shoulder,” she said. “Is that okay?”

He nodded, taking a few calming breaths as a rubbery finger prodded around what remained of the Galra arm. Her touch was warm and smooth, he noted. Not like the cold hands of sentries or Haggar.

“We’re going to amputate up to here,” the medic said, marking a line on Shiro’s skin with biro. “We will need to remove your clavicle, parts of your scapula, and open two of your ribs in order to place the port of your new arm in a place where it puts minimal stress on your body.” She looked him over with a critical eye. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” he said. Then he cracked a slight smile; might as well try to lighten the mood. “New arm. It’s good to know that’s what I’m waking up to this time.”

The medic leaning over Shiro cycled through several expressions before settling on horrified.

“Right.” She laughed awkwardly. “Let’s, uh, let’s get started.”

She moved away to fuss over a table of various surgical tools which Shiro was trying very hard not to think about. Iverson seemed to notice his agitation and moved to position his body between them.

Iverson had insisted on being present for the surgery. Shiro suspected this was partially guilt over restraining him to a table and telling the world he died, but also partially that ever since returning with Voltron, Shiro seemed to have earned a new respect in the commander’s eyes. Iverson now saw him for the fighter he was, not just the Garrison’s poster boy.

The medic returned. She held out a mask that would deliver sleeping gas.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said.

Shiro eyed the mask, fighting back the panic that rose in his chest. It was just sleeping gas. Breathe it in, go under, wake up in a few hours with two hands and no more Galra metal fused to his skin. He should be excited - he  _ had been  _ excited - but now the mask was descending towards his face and he was running out of time, soon he would be defenceless and at their mercy once more, and they would hurt him, and there was nothing he could do to stop-

“Shiro?”

_ Shiro. _ He focused on the name; his name. The Galra never called him Shiro, only ever Prisoner 117-9875 or Champion. He forced his eyes to focus and saw Iverson.

“Sorry,” he rasped. “Continue.”

“Are you sure?” said the medic.

Shiro grunted. Truth be told, no, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to be rendered unconscious, and he certainly didn’t want to undergo another surgery.

_ But you  _ **_do_ ** _ want a new arm,  _ he reminded himself.  _ Think how useful it will be. You’ve wanted this ever since you lost the old one. _

The outcome would be worth whatever discomfort he felt now. It had to be worth it. He breathed in, out, in again. They weren’t going to hurt him, at least not intentionally. Everything would be fine.

He had almost convinced himself when a hand made sudden contact with his right shoulder.

His skin prickled at the contact and some suppressed thing in his mind reared and tore from his control.  _ Get away from me!  _ it screamed, and his eyes flew open, body moving defensively like it had a mind of its own. He didn’t see a human, just a figure leering over him, shadowed by the lights above. She was saying something, but the words were lost on him. He was too transfixed by her skin and how it lightened to blue-purple before his eyes. Her clinical clothes fell away and long sweeping robes took their place. The noise of the room seemed to amplify in her presence, louder and louder until white noise boxed him in. Despite that, he could hear her every movement as she leaned in close.

Dark eyes shone yellow.

"No.” He shook his head. “No, you’re not- you can’t be here.”

“You should know better by now.” She sneered, and it was such a hideous expression of glee that he whimpered involuntarily. “I will always find you.”

“No!”

“No?” Her eyes narrowed to thin glowing slits, almost cartoonish, like the things that lurked in dark corridors and gleamed to life when your back was turned. “Need I remind you what happens when you say ‘no’ to me?”

Her hand traced down his right arm. She stopped just below the elbow and squeezed, tight enough that he could feel the bones grinding. He shouted in pain, pulling uselessly against her grip, but it only made things worse; her nails dug into his flesh and left bleeding furrows.

She pressed down one final time, and he heard a sharp crack _. _ For one blissful second he felt nothing but shock - then the pain hit and it was  _ agonising _ . This wasn’t his first broken bone, nor his second or even his third, but experience never dulled the pain, hot and electrifying and so incredibly wrong. He screamed, momentarily aware of nothing except how much  _ it hurt _ . Her fingers coiled around the bone, razor-sharp nails tearing through muscle and ligament as if they were made of tissue paper. He tried to scream again and found he couldn’t. He didn’t have enough air; his back arched as he fought past the welling of fear in his throat.

Then she released him. His first instinct was to shield his broken arm from further abuse, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare turn to his side lest he agitate it more. Darkness receded from his peripheral vision as he recovered air in ragged gasps. Speaking made him feel sick, but he forced the words out anyway. “My arm. I can’t fight like this.”

“Yes, you can. But I would not worry about the arm.” She watched his face attentively, taking in his alarm with hungry eyes. “You will not be needing it much longer.”

_ “-his pulse is still climbing. It’s like he doesn’t even know we’re here.” _

_ “Let me through!” _

His brow creased in confusion. He didn’t recognise those voices. Or rather, he  _ did _ , but from a different time.

The edges of her robes dissolved into dark smoke. He squinted, trying to make clear the distinction between her and the walls behind her, but her form flickered and they coalesced into one. Then the background faded away, as dark as the expanse of the Black Lion’s mind, and  _ wait, how could he possibly know about the astral plane when that hadn’t happened yet- _

“Shiro!”

Someone’s arms were beneath his back, levering him into a seated position. He tried to pull away from them but they held tight, their torso pressed against his side. Blood pulsed in his ears, loud enough to drown out his other senses, leaving him in the dark though his eyes were wide open.

None of this made any sense. Where was he? Where was Haggar? Losing track of her never ended well for him. He tried once more to pull away but firm hands held his body still.

“Shiro, please, it’s going to be okay.”

That was- that was Keith’s voice, a lifeline of familiarity he held close among all of these things that didn’t make sense. Fighting his instincts, he stopped struggling. Even if he couldn’t trust the situation, he could trust Keith.

“Thank you,” Keith sighed in relief. “We’re at the Garrison, remember? On Earth.”

The present moment crashed over him like a tidal wave, years’ worth of memories sucking him underwater and wrenching his mind free from the Galra ship, tumbling through the backwash until he was back in the medical wing of the Galaxy Garrison. His body jolted as his mind returned, and suddenly he was all too aware of the people - the real,  _ physical  _ people - crowded around him. He opened his eyes, blinking in the harsh light.

“-sorry! I’m so sorry.” The medic held out her hands placatingly. “I had no idea he would react so badly to the-”

“Never mind that,” Keith said with finality. The medic’s mouth snapped shut. “Shiro. Are you with me?”

Earth. The Garrison. Hospital room. Medical procedure -  _ voluntary _ medical procedure. New arm. Keith was here. He was safe.

“Yeah,” he grated out. “I’m with you.”

As the room came into cleaner focus, shame began to set in. He hated it when other people witnessed his episodes, and having one here, triggered by people who were trying to help him? It was embarrassing. Unprofessional. How could anyone be expected to rely on a man whose attachment to the here and now was sketchy at best?

...of course, he knew what the others would say if they could read his thoughts, but he was too tired to argue with common sense right now. His body ached with the fatigue of adrenaline leaving his system. He relaxed into Keith’s side and tried to draw attention away from his damaged brain.

“Are-” To his embarrassment, his voice came out croaky. Had he been screaming? He really hoped he hadn’t been screaming. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Aren't you supposed to be training?”

Keith raised his eyebrows. “Shiro. Half an hour off won’t get me killed. And besides, the Black Lion refused to fly.” He prodded Shiro’s chest. “That’s how I knew something was wrong.”

Shiro stared at Keith blankly. He had tried to reconnect with the Black Lion following his resurrection, and though she purred at the back of his mind her cabin remained dark. It hurt to leave - especially when they’d been so intricately joined for the best part of a year - but he didn’t hold it against her. Shiro had named Keith his successor, and then Shiro had died. The Lions probably didn’t plan for reanimation to affect their choice in paladins - though Black had been seriously unlucky there, with both Zarkon and Shiro coming back from the dead.

To hear that she was still looking out for him even though he was no longer her paladin left a warm glow in his heart.

“You shouldn’t have been able to get in,” he mumbled. “Surgery room.”

Keith smirked. “Good luck keeping me out.”

“I appreciate that you did not knock me out this time,” Iverson added, his serious voice laced with a humour that suggested Keith, too, had earned his respect. Given the history between the two, this made Shiro smile more than the comment itself.

He rested against Keith, his presence helping quash the lingering malaise of the flashback. Ambient sound washed over him - the quiet chatter of two medics (or maybe one was the engineer?), the slowing  _ bleeps _ of the pulse monitor attached to him. His body still trembled, but it was more exhaustion now than real fear.

“Shiro,” Iverson said after a few minutes. Shiro’s back straightened, at attention on instinct. “We are ready to proceed.”

The lump in his throat was back, body unwilling to give something reminiscent of such trauma a second go.

“I’ll be right here,” Keith reassured.

And though his mind was yelling  _ no, no, no!,  _ Shiro took a deep breath and said, “I’m ready.”

Iverson nodded to one of the medics. The anaesthetic machine hummed to life. Shiro detached himself from Keith and settled back against the operating table. Drawing out the wait would only pull his nerves so taut they frayed again; better to get this done with. He’d be grateful for it when he woke up with his new prosthetic.

_ Yes, focus on the positives.  _ He visualised the new arm, lying on its bench in the workshop. Allura’s face when she’d shown it to him. His own tears of joy that night. The warmth in his chest when he thought about how much he loved his team, how much it meant that they would do something like this for him.

Keith squeezed his hand. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

He felt gloved hands fit a mask over his face and his next breath tasted stale.

“Thanks,” Shiro muttered. His eyelids fluttered lethargically, as if each eyelash weighed a thousand tonnes.

"After all you have done for us,” Keith said, “this is the least we could do for you.”

Shiro didn’t have the energy to respond. His mouth was dry and he felt a little giddy. The table he lay on seemed to be tilting forwards, a rollercoaster car approaching a massive drop.

_ Danger?  _ questioned his mind.

He could hardly feel his body, but he knew Keith still held his hand.

_ No,  _ he replied.  _ Safe. _

When he woke up, he would have a new arm. One that he chose to have - one his friends made, not his captors. He would wake up in a bed surrounded by his family, not alone on the cold floor of a prison cell.

He breathed in deep and the world lurched. The table seemed to plummet away, leaving him floating far above his body, and this time when unconsciousness called, he embraced it without a second thought.


End file.
